


Can anybody find me somebody to love?

by SlytherinTom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester is Not Heterosexual, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Michael is a creep, Mild Language, Music, Non-Consensual Touching, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queen AU, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinTom/pseuds/SlytherinTom
Summary: 70s Rock Band AU. Dean Winchester is the lead singer of "The Queens of Hell", a rising band living the dream.But when he looks at the drummer Castiel Novak, he knows he's in deep shit.____Dean thinks of Mrs. Barnes’s generous breast and how he is the only one who manages to follow what she says and look her in her eyes.Cas turns to him as the music starts. Dean clutches the mic andsings.





	1. Each morning I get up I die a little

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely inspired by the movie "Bohemian Rhapsody".  
> There will be some congruencies with the film and some won’t.  
> My soulmate has asked me to specify that THERE WON’T BE MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, so don't worry and have faith.  
> The band’s songs are all by Queen.

**March 10 th, 1992**

Castiel lightly fingers the advertisement on the bulletin board. Students are streaming fast behind him in the busiest hall of Stanford University. Someone stumbles in his shoulder and he uses the momentum to turn and half-heartedly glare, before looking back to the board.

 

_WANTED – vocalist, bassist. Musical competence is not optional. Meet at Central Library – 6 PM._

He reads it again; his hands are in his pockets. After a while he smiles and walks away.

 

**July 10 th, 1973**

“ _Keep yourself alive_!” He shouts at the top of his lungs and the mob screams.

Dean can’t keep still. He paces the stage, grips the mic hard, wire and everything, and mimics what Gabriel is doing with his guitar right in front of him. The guitarist is focused, but laughs at his attempts with the short pole of his microphone. He brings it back to his mouth and sucks in a breath.

“ _I was told a million times, of all the troubles in my way. Mind you grow a little wiser, little better every day. But if I crossed a million rivers and I rode a million miles, then I'd still be where I started, bread and butter for a smile._ ”

The crowd seems endless from where he is seeing it, their hands strained in the air towards the band seem chaos moving at the rhythm of songs, like waves of an ocean. When they sing with him they shine like gold.

“ _Well, I sold a million mirrors in a shopping alley way, but I never saw my face in any window any day. Now they say your folks are telling you, be a super star. But I tell you just be satisfied, stay right where you are_.”

He throws a punch in the air and feels breathless – _powerful_.

“ _Keep yourself alive!_ ” They scream with him.

“ _Keep yourself alive! Oh, it'll take you all your time and money. Honey, you'll survive!_ ”

Gabriel steps ahead with Chuck to the front of the stage playing the arrangement they wrote and leaving space for the drums solo. Dean moves towards the drummer, his head shaking in time with the beats. Cas plays for all he is worth and Dean couldn’t look away even if he tried. Hair plastered with sweat to his head and skin shining, his sticks are flying across the drums. His snapping hands are nearly a blur as the bass drum vibrates in time with his foot.

“Yeah!” He shouts right in front of him, his arms spread wide.

Cas lifts his tired eyes with a mischievous smile, his arms don’t rest. Not even a moment.

Mouth suddenly dry, Dean runs towards the piano where rows of glasses are full of cheap beer. He picks up one and takes some deep gulps, some spills down the side of his mouth. He wipes it quickly, as he recognizes the end of the instrumental part and counts mentally the beats to start singing.

“ _Well, I've loved a million women in a belladonic haze and I ate a million dinners brought to me on silver trays. Give me everything I need to feed my body and my soul and I'll grow a little bigger, maybe that can be my goal_.”

The words grow in his chest and in his next breath he turns towards Chuck. He is engrossed in his bass as he taps his left foot, with his brand new black _Chuck Taylor All Star High Top_ whose laces are neatly done. His body sways with his motion.

“ _I was told a million times of all the people in my way. How I had to keep on trying and get better every day. But if I crossed a million river and I rode a million miles, then I'd still be where I started. Same as when I started._ ”

Chuck looks up, smirks at him and brings his attention on the microphone planted in front of him for the chorus. He turns to the people and sings:

“ _Keep yourself alive!_ ” They scream with him, his free arm open wide.

“Come on! _Keep yourself alive! All you people keep yourself alive!_ ”

The music drifts on Castiel’s cymbals and Gabriel’s stroke of his hand. He steps up at the edge of the stage and lifts his hands in the air to shout his last note: “Heeeeeeey!”

The crowd’s answer is deafening and shakes his core.

Gabriel plays a last vibrating chord in answer to him and then there's just the loud shouting of the people. Dean opens his arms wide and walks the length of the stage, as if to embrace them and soak up all of their words.

“Thank you! You've been awesome!” He blows them a kiss and smirks when they get louder. “Love you!”

He turns around as the others are saying their goodbyes and goes to the backstage where all sounds are somewhat muted. His ears feel stuffed and his face feels numb. He pinches his left cheek, lightly slaps himself. When nothing changes, he shakes his head sending droplets of sweat flying everywhere.

“Whoa, big shot, watch the suit.”

Sam is in front of him, shielding himself with his briefcase. He takes him in and laughs.

“Only you could be so daft, no one comes to concerts uptight like a penguin.”

He rolls his eye. “I'm your lawyer and concerts seem like the kind of place where you would get serious trouble.”

“Aw, Sammy. Ya do love me. Come here.” He moves to hug but he is swiftly avoided.

“Very funny, Dean.”

A pair of sweaty arms, though, suddenly find their way around Sam. “Samuel, sweetheart! Dean told me you’re going back tonight, how could you! You’ll leave me hangin’ like this?”

“Ugh, Gabe! Get off, man!”

Dean leaves them at it, as Castiel sidesteps them to join him. “Chuck?”

“Right behind me.” He can see him now, Chuck looks conflicted between wanting to stop the tangle of limbs in front of him or just lay back and enjoy the show.

Dean sighs, tiredly. “Alright.”

Already dreaming a shower, he turns and says: “Drinks on me tonight, guys! We did good.”

“Pass.” Chuck says.

They all turn to look at him and he shrinks in his own place. “I just don’t feel like it.”

Gabe finally disentangles from Dean’s brother to frown at Chuck. “Come on, man. You can’t leave me alone with these two.”

This time Dean frowns at Gabe. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

No one pays him attention and Cas grips his arm to pull him away. “Come on, Dean. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

He pinches the suspenders he is wearing. Despite being shirtless he is melting. “Yeah, it’s so hot. I can’t wait to get out of my clothes.”

“Not that you’re wearing much to begin with.”

Castiel chuckles and Dean realizes he can’t keep the smile off his face.

Sometimes, he thinks his life feels like a dream, like he could float if he just willed it.

He whoops loudly and jumps towards the exit. His family is still laughing behind him.

 

-

 

“I need more drinks. All those in favor, say aye.”

“Aye,” Dean says, his hand straining in the air like a six-year-old.

Castiel palms tiredly his face. “Ugh, guys. I don’t know how you do it.”

Dean pats his back as Gabriel shouts for another round and Castiel raises abruptly from his stoot. “No, Gabe! I just said I didn’t want another!”

Gabriel slowly blinks at him. “What.”

He sighs, sinking back down. “My head is spinning.”

Gabe finger-guns at him. “See? You are missing the point while being exactly on point, man.”

Dean’s face shifts slowly to a puzzled frown as Cas looks blankly at Gabriel from the crook of his arm. “I hate you.”

The club is packed, but not with the kind of crowd they liked to mingle with. Gabe had been rather adamant about wanting the most expensive place they could find and now, surrounded by men in suits and women in shining long dresses, Dean had never felt more out of place. He needs another drink.

“You really don’t.” Says Cas.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yep. Worry not, my friend. I have your medicine.” Gabriel slams down in front of them two shots of pure gin. Dean shrugs and downs it in the span of time Gabe takes to pull his hand back. Castiel’s grimace is halfway between impressed and nauseated. Dean smiles cheekily, his mouth feels full of cotton and smacks it a bit.

“Castiel, Castiel, Castiel. This is really not the time to be a party-pooper. Did we or did we not score the fifth place on the American album charts?”

“We did!” Proclaims Dean loudly, making his stool scoot backward noisily. Gabriel just hoots and downs his shot.

“Guys, stop it! We’re gonna get kicked out.” Says Cas, as he ducks Gabriel’s swinging arm.

“Noo, they wouldn’t kick VIPs out. Tha’s bad for business.”

Dean’s laugh is strangely coming closer to a giggle, so he hastily covers it up by saying: “Dude, you’re slurring.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Castiel gets up, smiles apologetically at the bartender, who has spent the last hour glaring at them at every spare moment he had, and puts a generous amount of cash on the counter. Enough for the bill and a very good tip, judging from the smile now lighting up the man’s face as he wishes them _a good night, sirs_.

They stumble out of the bar – miraculously Dean is still capable of walking in a straight line and helps Cas dragging a nearly conked out Gabriel along with them. Opting for a walk, because the hotel is near and they need to take in some fresh air anyway.

The street is silent and their uneven steps echo oddly – Castiel’s ears are ringing. He turns when Dean sucks in a deep breath.

 “ _Didn't know what time it was and the lights were low. I leaned back on my radio. Some cat was layin' down some get it on rock 'n' roll, he said._ ”

Cas feels a smile tug at his lips as Dean’s eyes catch his. This time he takes a deep breath with him.

 “ _Then the loud sound did seem to fade. Came back like a slow voice on a wave of phase haze. That weren't no D.J. that was hazy cosmic jive._ ”

He keeps his voice low to hear Dean’s. It makes his stomach clench and his skin raise in goosebumps. Breathing is difficult as he sings:

“ _There's a starman waiting in the sky. He'd like to come and meet us, but he thinks he'd blow our minds. There's a starman-_ ”

“Okay, okay, guys. Whoa, stop right there with the musical. Particularly you, Cas. My head can’t really take that kind of ultrasounds.”

Dean’s gaze slowly slides away from his. He looks ahead and stumbles on his own feet.

“Do you feel better?” Dean says, hoarse.

Gabriel is looking gradually greener. “Not really.”

He quickly disentangles himself from them and vomits two steps ahead. Dean sneers and turns away, a hand in front of his mouth. “Ugh, sympathetic puke. Keep him away from me.”

Castiel sighs, then laughs at them.

 _Starman_ is playing on repeat in his mind.

 

-

 

The next day, Dean and Castiel get up relatively early to get to a wide-spread _continental breakfast_. Dean jokes about the composition of his strangely fluorescent yellow scrambled eggs and proceeds to eat just about everything in the buffet. Castiel is all sleepy smiles barely concealed behind a large cup of cappuccino. It ensues a frothy moustache and Dean can’t stop laughing as Cas stares at him with a perfectly stern face.

When Chuck comes to check, he finds them like this. Dean declares Cas intends to leave the band to fulfill his life-long dream of being a porn star and Castiel falls off his chair laughing _– please Dean, stop it. Ow, my spleen_.

Chuck blinks at them and rolls his eyes.

“Is Gabriel awake yet?”

Gabriel’s room resembles much more a cave than anything else and they get nearly thrown out when Chuck tries to open the curtains.

“Gabe! You have to get up, man! We are leaving in two hours!” Dean says, trying to shake the seemingly dead man out of his sleep.

 “I need my beauty sleep.”

They’re about to roll up his mattress to shove him off, but reconsider. A hangover Gabe is completely useless, says Chuck with a sigh. “After an aspirin, all will be better. Don’t worry, he’ll be up and about in no time.”

Dean goes in his room, he has to finish his bags and Cas follows him saying he needs some music sheets he left in his room. Chuck glares at them both and thanks them _– for nothing_.

His old banged-up duffel bag rests open on the carpet.

He had done it the night before and it just lacks his toiletries. He sits on his bed with a creak and eyes Castiel, who is rustling papers on the desk. Sensing his stare, he looks back at him, then at the phone on his bedside table and nods. Dean sighs.

He rubs his hands over his tights and wishes he had done this before Sam went back home. Handset in hand, he weights it a bit and composes the phone number, waits quietly as it rings, fingering absently the hang up button.

“Hello?”

His stomach unclenches. “Hey, mom. It’s Dean.”

“Oh! Hey, honey.”

“How are you?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. What about you?”

Dean fiddles with the phone cord and wets his lips. “Yeah. Me too.”

He hears his mother’s light laugh and his receiver cackle as she readjusts it. “Ah, yes. I can see how your first American tour can be so underwhelming.”

He huffs a chuckle and leans against the bedpost. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Gosh, you’re more tight-lipped than Sam. Maybe I’ll ask him what you guys have been up to, when he arrives.”

“I swear if he even says one bad thing, I’m not taking him with me anymore.”

“Should I be worried, Dean?” She chuckles nervously.

He lifts his eyes from his own fiddling hands and sees Castiel. He is wearing a white T-shirt a bit tight on his shoulders and he is hunched over the table. His brows are furrowed as he examines a music sheet and he has a pencil behind his ear.

“Mom. What? No, I’m just joking.”

 “You better.” She sighs.

He folds an arm behind his head and the silence stretches. He wants to ask about John, but every time he is about to say something his lungs tighten and his voice gets stuck.

“Your father is… coming around.”

He blinks taken aback and then snorts. “As in my name is not blasphemy anymore?”

“Don’t do this, Dean.”

“Do what? He is the one who won’t talk to me.”

“I know, I know. He just needs to-”

“No, fuck him. I don’t wanna hear this, mum. I’m in a good place right now, you know?”

 “Yes, I know.” She sighs again, slowly. “And I’m happy for you, baby. Don’t worry about it. Everything will be good.”

Dean feels suddenly tired. He watches his free hand, brushes his forefinger with his thumb. “Yeah.” A pause. “Bye, mom.”

“Bye, sweetie. Love you.”

“Love you too.” He hangs up noisily and looks at the phone some more, then back up at Cas.

The room feels smaller and he suddenly wishes the windows were open. He needs a cigarette, but as he searches his pockets realizes he doesn’t. Not really, he just wants something to keep his hands occupied. Something that would put the world back into focus. He feels lost in his own head.

“Dean, if you’re done could you come here a sec?”

“Sure.” He shoots up like a soldier.

-

 

Music for Dean is like trying to paint light or water, when he thinks he has reached perfection it just slips away from him and he scrambles to try and look at it from another perspective. He lightly fingers the smooth piano keys in his home in Palo Alto and frowns. A cigarette dangles between his lips, burnt nearly to the filter. He couldn’t have taken more than two hits.

He tries to play again. Every time though, there’s something not right, that just sounds off-tune and he has to stop. He is stuck, as if he has just one of a thousand-piece puzzle without a bigger picture to follow – he hits another dead end. And takes a deep breath.

He shouts purely out of frustration, his hands take it out on the piano in a series of discordant chords, until they build up something so ugly in his chest that he has to stop. He slowly curls his trembling fingers into fists and tries to steady his fast breaths. His mind is reeling.

He takes another hit from his cig, but it’s so bitter he grimaces to himself. He looks at it, or the lit butt which remains, and at the cinder on his pants. He puts out the smoke on the ashtray with a sigh.

He wants to call Castiel.

His gaze lands on the dark brown telephone on the other side of the room and in the next instant, he is standing up.

With a violent swipe of his hands his music sheets get strewn over the floor in a silent hiss. He rubs his face tiredly and mutters: “Fuck. Fuck.”

He calls Sam.

He has some beers in his fridge, he says to his brother – and you could bring something to eat, just like old times, you know?

His brother takes more than usual to answer and Dean is on the verge of hanging up. He swears to himself, if he hears even the furthest version of _‘are you okay?’_ , he swears he’ll just-

“Sure.”

Thank God.

 

“So, there’s this pile of mess in the kitchen sink, like there was at least a pan and two dirty bowls, and I’m like ‘what the hell?’. Jess just shrugs and says ‘I made cereal’, like it’s all completely normal.” Sam laughs fondly at the memory. Dean joins him, but doesn’t really feel it.

It’s the last days of August and outside the rain comes down in buckets. Thankfully it’s started after his brother got here or he wouldn’t have heard the end of it. The droplets hit his windows hard, they sound like firecrackers. One after the other, overlapping. It’s distracting.

He takes a swig.

“Anyway, I ended up doing the dishes.”

“You say that as if it’s a new thing.”

Sam smiles besotted at his own beer and Dean rolls his eyes. “God, I didn’t know you could be even more maudlin when Jess is not around. Or maybe she’s just that great and makes up for your complete uselessness.”

Sam lightly shoves him and fake-scowls. “Hey, I’m not completely useless.”

“How?” Dean chuckles.

“Well, I’m here for one.”

He looks away just as his brother turns to face him. After a moment, he brings the bottle to his mouth and takes several gulps of beer.

“But that’s in the job description, I guess.”

“Uh?” Swallowing his last mouthful, he puts down the now empty bottle and smacks his lips. He frowns at it.

He turns to Sam when he sighs and finds him still looking at him. “I’m your brother, that’s my job. Being here.”

Dean looks at him, at loss. He wishes he had more beer to swallow down the lump in his throat. He blinks. “I thought you were my lawyer.”

There’s beat of silence, then they are both laughing. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder and says: “Well, to be fair, being here for you fills in the description of both jobs. But stop saying that every time, I’m not just your lawyer.”

“Yeah, you’re so much more to me.”

“Agh, stop it. You know I meant the band. I’m the band’s lawyer.”

Dean slaps his little brother’s back and just laughs quietly once more. His chest rattles with it and he can finally feel air replenishing his lungs.

 

Later, when he goes back to the piano, he puts aside his lost puzzle piece. Instead he invents something new.

 

-

 

Sunday morning, he wakes up late on the couch of his living room, covered in papers – delirious writing that led to relatively good music. He doesn’t want to revise it yet, so he just gets up and showers right away. Under the spray, the tune he is working on still plays in his head and he hums along with it. He likes the way his voice echoes in the bathroom and absently wonders how could he recreate it in the studio.

He turns the knob and the water shuts with a squeak.

Outside, the world is dull grey and sticky warm. After yesterday’s showers the pathways are riddled with puddles that Dean doesn’t care to sidestep, too busy penning down correction on his own arrangements. He writes, supporting the sheets with his left hand, but his pencil pierces through the paper more than once and he curses under his breath.

When he arrives at the studio, his shoes and ankles are cold and muddy with road dirt and his feet are swimming.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow at him. “What chewed you up and spit you out?”

“Fuck off, Gabe.”

“Ah, yes. One of those days it is. Oh, joy.”

Chuck and Cas are not here yet, so he helps Gabriel setting up the audio system and Cas’s drums – his head still buzzing with scattered ideas. He gets out of his reverie rather suddenly as Gabriel plays an arpeggio, then modulates it and starts a new pattern. He watches the other’s fingers fly over the guitar’s strings and approaches crouching at eye-level with them.

He smirks up at him. “It’s perfect.”

“Welcome back.” Gabriel is smirking too, but doesn’t look at him as he straightens up, neither does he stop. He plays and Dean feels his shoulders unclench and thinks there’s something about the way Gabriel plays his guitar. It’s easy, loose, familiar – it makes him feel good.

Gabe ends his piece on a simple A minor pentatonic scale up and down and finally looks at him. Dean scoffs: “The gloating look doesn’t suit you.”

“Au contraire, I think I should wear it more often. I’m the backbone of this group.”

He gathers some music sheets and waves them in front of the other’s face. “Then help me look at these, boss.”

They set to work and after a few minutes arrives Chuck and later Castiel. Dean suppresses a snort.

Gabriel does not. “It’s raining again, I gather?”

Cas is drenched to the bone with dripping clothes and soggy hair. He shoots Gabriel a sour look.

“What? Is umbrella not a thing in this century? Did I time travel?”

Chuck lightly cuffs his head. “Shut it, Gabe. Not helping.”

Dean gestures “come hither” at Cas and turns towards the back door of their studio. “I think I saw T-shirts here in the back once.”

It’s an old small storage room. It’s rather dark and the walls are lined with rows of forgotten files, office supplies and non-descript boxes. Dean sorts through an already open one.

“It’s years we play in here and I’ve never seen this place.” Castiel sounds a little breathless.

“Well,” he pauses and with a grunt he picks up a pile of white T-shirts to rest them on the tiny booth at his left and shift through them. “When we decided to buy this place, it was just me and Chuck. I guess.”

He frowns as he trails off and picks up a large size. “Should fit, right?”

When he turns, he finds Cas already looking at him – his face is only half lit by the soft glow of the lamps and it casts a strange kind of shadow across his nose. He diverts his attention to the shirt and brushes the slightly scratchy material with his thumbs. When his eyes catch the stamp, he snorts.

“ _What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger_. You’re joking, right?”

“I think they are for some motivational shit.” Dean says with a chuckle and once more shifts through the shirts.

 _Bingo._ “This! Please, put this on.”

Castiel takes the shirt with a wary glance in his direction and then reads his front. He snorts. “No.”

“Aw, come on. Just for laugh.”

“It’s even an extra-large. It’ll hang off me.”

Dean gets to his knees, eye wide and hands clasped in front of him. “Pretty please? I’m not above begging.”

Castiel glances down and stares at him a little too long, his face is frozen in a rapidly flattening smile. Abruptly, Dean feels self-conscious of the rough hard floor underneath his knees, of the little drops of water still framing Castiel’s face, of the humid air of the storage room, of his pasty dry mouth. But doesn’t get up.

Cas’s lips twitch. Then, “Okay.”

He gets up with a “Whoop!” and helps him get changed. He feels tense and a bit like a failure, not really knowing why.  That is familiar territory, beating himself up, but usually he has at least a good reason to do so.

In his hands, he clutches the new shirt for Cas as he pulls off the wet one he is wearing and balls it up to try to dry himself a bit.

Dean doesn’t have many close friends, it’s a bit sad when he thinks that his best friend is his own brother, but looking at Cas he feels happy. It’s stupid, how miserable he was the day before – alone with his music, in his empty house and the pit-patter of the rain. Now he wants to smile, he aches for it. He wants Cas to laugh at his jokes, like he usually does, and roll his eyes at him with a fond smile. He wants to place a hand on the back of Cas’s neck, because it’s so warm.

When Castiel is done changing, Dean realizes he has been staring the whole time, he feels guilty and has to turn away from him.

They get out and he just knows Gabriel is on the verge of saying something alluring about their prolonged absence but Castiel’s shirt catches his eye first.

He barks out a laugh. “ _No rain, no flowers_. Oh my God, Dean, I love you so much right now.”

Castiel rolls his eye and crosses his arms, as if to hide the caption from view and strides purposely towards his drums.

Gabriel is still leaning against Chuck, both laughing with tears in their eyes.

He doesn’t want to go back home ever.

 

-

 

Two days later he tries to call his mother. After the tour, he had heard from her just twice and the almost constant gloomy days makes him think of her, about the big window in their kitchen back in Lawrence and how the rain would batter against it. When the rain would let up, she used to play with him in the mud of their garden.

The phone rings for long and he is about to hang up when John’s gruff voice says: “Hello?”

With a loud clang, Dean presses the hang up switch so hard that when he lets it go he fears it will fall off.

 

-

 

On Friday the bad weather it’s completely gone, it’s still freakishly warm and his friends are honking outside of his house. Chuck’s pick up is teal, or at least it was, now the paint is mostly faded and scraping off. Dean is standing on his porch barefoot and shields his eyes from the sun as Chuck turns the window lever and with a grin shouts: “Come on, stranger! Get on!”

Gabriel leans forward from the passenger side to lower his big sunglasses and wiggle his eyebrows at him, mouthing something he doesn’t get but he’s sure it’s a joke about ‘giving him a ride’. Castiel waves at him from where he sits in the truck, he is wearing a pair of Aviators with dark green lenses and a tan V-neck linen shirt.

The more he stands under the sun the more his skin prickles with heat, so he gestures them to wait and goes back inside to put on his swim trunks, get sun screen and a towel. He also takes his cheap volleyball – high-fives Cas and ignores the grumbling complaints coming from the front-seats along the way.

Once he puts his feet in the sand, it burns and he has to tip-toe towards the luckily free beach volley net.  There’s no wind, so the ocean is calm and people in colorful bath-suits are enjoying the shimmering water.

“Come on, guys. We always make the same teams and you always win. Don’t you ever get bored?” Bemoans Chuck as Dean throws the ball in the air with a spin and grins.

“Nope. Come on,” he throws them the ball over the net, to let him and Gabe have the first shot. “We’ll go easy on you.”

They don’t. Castiel’s attack is ruthless and when Dean manages to make a good assist, he feels an addicting rush, that the first time distracted him enough to let Chuck and Gabe score one against them. As they start to get into it, the heat gets to them too and Dean takes off his white tank top, wiping at his face with it.

Several scores in their favor later, Gabriel blocks the ball and makes a “T” with his hands. Looking winded, he says: “I call it quits. We’ve humored you enough.”

“But Gabe-”

He shakes his head, already getting out of the outlined area. “I’m not hearing it. You win, sonny. The end.”

Chuck looks at them and shrugs.

Then he realizes. “Gabe! My ball!”

Gabriel doesn’t even look back as he starts to spring towards the water –  a laugh bursts out of him.

They follow him to the shore, their feet splashing in the cold shallow water. Dean makes a swipe at him. “You bastard! Give it back! You’ll lose it.”

Before he can touch him, Gabe throws the ball over Dean’s head. Directly in Castiel’s hands. Dean doesn’t move this time.

“Please let’s not make this, anymore childish. Pass it here, Cas.”

Castiel blinks at him, then charges as if to throw the ball back. Dean holds out his arms at the ready, just to be disappointed when instead Cas throws it at Chuck. He straightens up.

“You traitor!” He says affronted and promptly kicks his right foot out, spraying Castiel in water from head to toe. There’s a moment where none of them moves, Castiel’s eyes are squeezed shut, bangs dripping and muscles clenching for the cold. He sputters and wipes his eyes, shoving his wet hair back. His eyes finally open and find Dean, who starts backing up. Slowly.

With a nervous laugh, he says: “No, Cas. Please, I don’t know how to swim.”

To his credit, Castiel is deadly calm as he says. “Not even a cat would drown on the shore, Dean.”

He lets out a strangled laugh as Cas shoves himself at him to make him fall. He braces himself with the other shoulders and pushes a hand on his face – Cas retaliates with an unexpected hard pinch on his tender side. With a groan, he loses his foot and tumbles with a light splash and takes the other down with him. They scuffle messily, each trying to get the other’s hair wet, spluttering laughs. The sand chafes both of their knees and when it gets a bit too uncomfortable Castiel forfeits pleading mercy.

Dean smirks down at him and pauses his movements, sitting on top of him, breathless – his right hand lingers tucked between Castiel’s wet strands and in the next moment he registers the faded smile on the other’s face. His own slips off too, his thumb unconsciously brushes aside a stray lock of dark brown hair and his lower stomach flashes hotly. His jaw clenches. He is gripping Cas’s bicep with his left hand and suddenly he feels it, the hard body beneath him. Limbs tangled, skin on skin. He watches Castiel’s nostrils flare with each breath and right under his lips are slightly parted and _fuck he can’t move he can’t think he can’t-_

He can’t do this.

He lets go with a forced laugh, gets up hastily and offers his hand to Cas, who is still looking at him slightly bewildered. Blue eyes wide and uncertain. When he grips Dean’s hand, it feels as if he is crushing his bones.

“Uhm, Dean?”

He turns, relieved and breathing once again. He hadn’t noticed he had stopped. Chuck looks rather sheepish, though, and Dean frowns. “What?”

“We kinda lost your ball.”

“Aw, come on!”

Chuck points towards the open sea, where the tiny orange dot of his ball is barely visible. He is more disbelieving than anything else. “How did it even get so far in so little time?”

“The wind is picking up.”

It is.

Dean rubs his arms, which he realizes are now freezing and then everything it’s different. The sun shines still, but the cold wind makes it seem farther away. The water is icy and the sea salt makes his skin tight where the it has dried. Castiel won’t meet his eye and he’s constantly distracted – distant.

They soon get tired and decide to pack their things and get back home. The ride is peacefully silent and Dean wraps his towel around himself to shield from the wind, focusing on not touching Cas’s feet in front of him.

They drop him off first and as he watches his house come into view he feels a heavy weight settle on his chest. Chuck stops and he bids them goodbye as he gathers his thing and _we have practice tomorrow, don’t forget._

He nods, smiles for real, this time and looks at Cas. He is waving. “See you tomorrow, Dean.”

 _Yeah_ , he wants to say. Instead, he just waves back and watches from his porch the pick-up going away, his eyes glued on his friends the entire way. When the vehicle turns, going out of sight, he lets his hand drop and a few moments later goes inside.

“About time, Dean.”

He jumps out of his own skin. “What the actual fuck, Sam?”

His brother gets up from the couch and sets aside the book he has in hand. “You weren’t answering the phone.”

He eyes him like he’s gone out of his mind. Which he clearly did. “Obviously, I wasn’t home.”

“Well, obviously,” Sam parrots him. “This is important.”

He watches his brother carefully, he is clearly annoyed, but also something else. He seems apprehensive. “Did something happen?”

Sam scoffs, moving back his bangs. “Ha! Did something happen, you say?”

“Just come out with it, Sam. You’re stressing me out.”

Sam grips his shoulders tight and fixes him before saying: “A record company called today. A really important one.”

“What?”

“Yes!” He nods frantically. “We are talking about the same record company of Elton John, Dean. This is big.”

He shifts his brother grip to distance himself from him, as if it would make more sense. “You’re serious?”

Sam nods. “Deadly.”

Dean brushes a hand through his hair, completely breathless. “Fuck.”

His brother laughs brokenly. “Yeah.”

Dean stops with realization. “We have to tell the others.” Sam looks lost, he has to shake his shoulders a bit. “We have to tell the others, now.”

“Oh, fuck. You’re right! I should have waited when all the band was here, but I was so-”

“Yeah, I get it, Sam, believe me. This is a dream.”

Sam looks at him like the hero he isn’t and Dean wants to slap him. Right now, the hero is his little brother.

 

-

 

The contract doesn’t entirely convince him, but all is in order and it has sailed.  Dean scans it again.

The band is in the recording studio, some of the songs already written, rehearsed and ready to be recorded. The a/c luckily works, it buzzes noisily above the workstation where the staff is helping them. Mrs. Barnes – _Pamela, please Dean –_ is the owner’s wife, her smiles are wide, her lipsticks ranges from peach pink to fuchsia and she always crosses her arms in such a way that pushes up her breasts. Gabriel doesn’t even bother to hide when he stares and rubs his bottom lip. She leaves them with a wink and a bag of homemade cookies.

Dean snacks on one and brushes away the crumbs from the paperwork.

He spies from the corner of his eye Michael, a tallish black-haired man who takes his job as their new manager very seriously. He is wearing a black leather jacket and is slouched on a chair in the far end of the room, left leg propped up against the other. He asserts he must always be present when they record – _it’s stated by the contract you signed_ , he loves to remind them.

“Dean! We’re ready to start!”

“Coming.”

He scans once more the numerous sheets composing their contract with their new record company and smooths his frown. Well, too late now.

He works for the next hours in the soundproof room with his friends and while it lacks the adrenaline of performing for thousands of people, he enjoys it anyway. Chuck shows them new tunes that came to his mind the night before and Gabriel tries to improvise over them. Castiel can relax more and gets absorbed by working with Roger, the technician.

Dean looks at him and readies the mic. Behind the glass, Cas is holding the headphones by one speaker against his head, which dips slowly to the sound of the beat. Roger says something to him, he lifts his eyes and smirks a crooked smile. Dean thinks of Mrs. Barnes’s generous breast and how he is the only one who manages to follow what she says and look her in her eyes.

Cas turns to him as the music starts. Dean clutches the mic and _sings_.

 

“That was a good one, Dean.”

He takes his headphones off and gives a thumbs-up at Gabriel, who nods and lifts his finger from the switch to talk to the soundproof room. Chuck and Castiel high-five and get up, patting Roger back.

After tiding up his things, he gets out but stumbles into Michael as soon as he opens the door. The hallway is drenched in low yellow light and he can’t make out the other’s irises. He falters, his hand doesn’t leave the door-knob.

“Need something?”

“Just wanted to congratulate you. Perfect performance today.”

“Thanks.” Says Dean, wary. They had never talked outside of business before and he just hates how Michael could look down on him even if he is shorter by few inches.

The manager takes two more steps towards him and stops. Dean readjusts his grip on the door-knob.

“Honestly, I’ll get straight to the point.” The man trails off with a chuckle. “I wanted to talk about your… inclinations.”

“What?”

Michael narrows his eyes. “I know you’re not that dumb, despite what you like to make your friends believe.”

He lifts his hand and rests it on Dean’s shoulder, near but not quite touching his face. Dean swallows.

His face is _really near_.

“I can help you.” He whispers, canting slightly his head and skimming his thumb just under Dean’s slack lower lip, who is rooted on the spot. His eyes are wide and can’t leave Michael’s own for all that he wills himself to do so.

He feels his long fingers lightly trace his nape.

His jaw clenches.

“Dean! Michael! We’re going!”

Michael’s arm drops like a dead weight and Dean finally takes a step back. He looks beyond the other’s shoulders where Chuck is beckoning him and Gabriel is already walking down the hallway to get out.

He brushes past Michael with no second glance.

Cas walks beside him, and Dean feels strained with the need to reach for him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs in this chapter are:
> 
> -Keep yourself alive by Queen;
> 
> -Starman by David Bowie;


	2. Can barely stand on my feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time I forgot to mention that this work is beta'd by Mishalocked24. Love you, my soul.  
> I've added some trigger warnings in the notes at the end, for anyone who needs them.  
> Thank you for reading <3

It’s strange. The feeling of living so deep inside his own body he may as well disappear. As if he’s nothing, but a hollow shell of skin.

What Michael said, didn’t just get to his head. It carved a place for itself to be always there, at the forefront of his mind.

Where he has touched him feels weird and Dean loses himself in wondering if anyone else has ever done the same to him. A gesture so intense that left him speechless – _frozen_. As if it has robbed him of something.

He feels his heart beating through his shirt. Heavy.

He laughs with his friends, talks and walks with them but it’s like watching someone else do it.

That night he gets into bed. One moment he thinks he has finally settled, but then he has the need to change position. He gets tangled in his sheets, tries to take them off and angrily thinks that it’s too hot. It’s a hot night so _why the fuck does he need the covers to sleep-_

He lies awake and stares at the ceiling for the best part of the night. He thinks he might have fallen asleep at some point. Maybe for a few hours, he doesn’t really know – thoughts and dreams blurring together in a blend of noises he forgets the moment later. The sun rises behind his curtains and still he feels his heart beating against his chest. His eyes are glued open. As they rove the ceiling, they stumble on a stain and suddenly Michael's hands are on him again.

The alarm clock on his bed-side table changes from 5:31 to 5:32. Dean gives up. He goes in the kitchen to start his coffee machine and softly scratches his nose as he waits. His face feels stiff and slow and he’s never been more tired in his life.

 

-

  

On a weekend night, he invites Cas over. Gabriel, though reluctantly, has a thing with his family and Chuck loves to remind them how he already has to put up with their insanity nearly 24/7, so he just disappears from time to time.

He bought too much food for just one person anyway, he says to Cas over the phone.

“I was gonna accept. But good to know.”

Dean chuckles and hangs up.

Sometimes Cas stays over. His apartment is tiny, hot in summer and cold in winter and though he has enough money to live anywhere he wants, he goes on saying he doesn’t _want_ to. He seems to appreciate Dean’s bungalow well enough though.

They watch films and heat up leftovers. Cas would bring his drumsticks and beat them around the house. On his lamps, on his table, on his pans; Dean would either try to ignore him or sing with him at his old upright piano. They would drape themselves on his couch, Dean upside down with his legs hanging off behind and his arms braced under his head, while Cas would lay propped up against his chest as they listen to the latest LP he bought.

“ _Every time we say goodbye, I die a little. Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little._ ”

He swings lightly his legs. Listens to the music flow, like water over his skin, over Cas on his chest.

“ _When you're near, there's such an air of spring about it. I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it_.”

He knows the lyrics by heart and mouths along with them. When he was a child, Mary used to put on this very record on Sunday mornings as she cleaned around the house. When he saw it at Bobby’s shop, he had to have it.

The violins stream their last notes and Cas says, breathless: “Whoa.”

“Pretty much.”

“I love this.”

The record changes to _These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)_ , but neither of them moves. Dean closes his eyes and focuses on the quiet music. Breathing deeper.

Castiel slowly turns, softly rests his cheek against his chest and looks at him. Dean feels his steady breath smoothing down his shirt and after a while his eyes tug down, for the first time in weeks.

“You’re tired.”

He feels Castiel’s light touch on his elbow and lowers his eyes to look at him. “Uh?”

“You’ve been strange all week,” His frown creates a crease between his brows that Dean can’t help wanting to touch. He folds his fingers into loose fists.

Cas shrugs. “And I can see you’re tired.”

“I don’t,” _sleep._ It’s what he means to say. He looks away. “I don’t know. I’ve just felt a bit off.”

The song ends and another starts up again.

Castiel’s fingers slide up his arm until he reaches his wrist. He circles it. “I want to see your hands.”

Dean looks down at him and disentangles his hands from behind his head. Cas takes one softly. Dean’s mind is carefully blank, lungs uncomfortably hot.

“I really like them.” He whispers, eyes tracing the length of his fingers. He feels him swallow against his skin.

“Have you ever wondered, or I dunno, thought about,” his eyes don’t leave the palm of his hand, unconsciously tracing it with his thumb. “Men. Like, _liking_ men?”

“What do you mean?”

Castiel sighs and slightly tightens his grip on his hand. His voice is hoarse. “Would you hate me if I liked men?”

“No.” Dean throat closes up when Cas’s thumb brushes the inside of his wrist.

“Dean. I wonder sometimes,”

The record player gets stuck and they both flinch. The music tumbles, along with Cas’s words. The moment is gone. Dean carefully disentangles from him, gets up with a clumsy flip and turns off the device. Castiel chuckles and Dean fake mocks him, daring him to do the same. The rest of the night is spent trying to win over the other with flips and headstands on the couch, failing miserably and knocking down a short china vase Mary had gifted him when he had moved out. Castiel calls it a night and they bid each other goodnight.

When Dean gets to bed, he feels like he could sleep. This time more than a few hours. He snuggles a pillow, closes his eyes and drifts.

 

He wakes up in the dark.

That’s all he knows these days. It’s like sleeping became an impossible marathon. He chases the morning like a finish line, so far away that he sometimes forgets why he has to reach it. When he lies in bed and wonders why exhaustion tugs at his bones and _still_ he is not sleeping, everything feels out of reach. Intangible.

He thinks he has forgotten how. Human beings sleep since birth, he remembers as a teenager he didn’t know how _not to_. Now, here he is, wondering if maybe he is doing it wrong. Does he prefer to sleep on his side? On his stomach? On his back?

He can’t remember.

When his alarm goes off, he’s still awake.

 

“You really shouldn’t have bothered with making me breakfast, Dean.” Smiles Castiel later. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“It looked like you were having a really good sleep.” His smile feels stiff.

He pours them coffee and asks himself why does he still bother with it.

 

-

 

It happens on a Tuesday, in the recording studio. Gabriel is playing his riff and Dean listens intently to the music through his headphones. It starts out as a low sound and at first, he doesn’t register it over the music. Then he hears it. It’s buzzing, steady, like radio static.

He shakes his head frowning, but it doesn’t stop. He raises his palm.

“Guys! Guys! I think my headphones are broken.”

Gabriel stops and a second later all the instruments follow. It doesn’t change. It’s nearly a whistle now, makes his skull crack apart in pain. Dean grimaces and roughly pulls off his headphones.

“What the fuck.” It doesn’t stop. It amplifies and worms his way inside his bones, making him shake. He puts a hand to his head, his muscles are locked so tight he breaks the headphone in the other hand.

Then silence. He nearly loses his balance in relief.

A hand squeezes his shoulder and he flinches – _he wants to sleep_.

“Dean?”

“Fuck, Cas. Did you hear that?”

“What are you talking about? Is it the headphones?” Castiel takes them from his hand. They are slightly crooked to the side now.

Reality snaps back into place. It’s Gabriel hand on his shoulder, hovering behind him, and Chuck is worriedly looking at them from the workstation. Castiel is right in front of him examining his headphones, as if he could deduce something from them.

He looks up at him with a worried frown. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” He answers, automatic. No one heard it but him. Numbness spreads down his body with the realization that it had been in his head.

Gabriel steps up from behind him. “You sure, man?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Everyone is still staring, his skin crawls. He shrugs off Gabriel’s hand. “Stop it, y’all. I’m fine, just a little tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying all week, Dean.” It’s Micheal, who just got in the soundproof room. Dean looks sharply at him.

“Should we take a break?” Dean’s head snaps back to Gabriel. Chuck looks uncertain from behind the glass. “We recorded only my piece-”

“What? A break? You joking? Just because I’m a little tired? We’re working here, not just messing around. Of course, I’m tired!”

“I just meant-”

“Nothing!” Dean grabs the lapels of Gabriel’s shirt and brings him to an inch from his face. “You meant nothing.”

“Dean, stop it!”

Dean meets Castiel’s hard gaze and slowly unclenches his fists. His eyes are bottomless when they are that dark. “Get out.”

“What. You can’t just-”

“You mean to tell me you can sing like this?”

Dean looks away and presses his lips together. His broken headphones rests awkwardly over his music stand and everyone is still staring at him. Dean’s thoughts are a black cloud raving in his head, he slowly shakes his head and doesn’t look back at Cas as he gets out.

The usual glow of the hallway’s lamps seems even more bleary today, each one of them seem surrounded by a golden halo.

“Dean.”

“Mh?”

“Why don’t you go home, try to get some sleep? We’ll work on the pieces without you, then we’ll go over them together tomorrow.”

He looks at Cas and sees only genuine worry. He hates himself a little when he feels empty of everything else. He wants to answer that he has _tried, he does nothing else but try to sleep, and still it’s never enough. Always too little or nothing at all._

So, he says: “Yeah.”

He feels Cas’s gaze on him on the entire way out.

 

-

 

November rolls around in a rush. Between rehearsal and recording sessions, the days pass nearly in a blur. The wind gets colder, the sky whiter and Dean's nights swing between sleepless and restless in a cadence that becomes neatly regular. He hears that strange buzz again, but when he finally gives up and goes to the doctor, he learns that auditory hallucinations are rather common in individuals with unhealthy sleeping patterns. That’s it, full circle. At least, when he is about to crash, he manages to sneak in an afternoon nap that slows everything down and makes him nearly human once again.

One particularly cold afternoon, he goes earlier than usual to the recording studio and finds the rooms still all occupied. So, for once he accepts Pamela’s offer of a quick coffee and joins her in the crew hall.

“I have pie, too.”

“Give it to me. Now.”

She laughs and Dean thinks about how young she actually must be. The lines around her eyes smooth out and her relaxed mouth seems fuller, he has never seen her like this. Lately she has been making herself scarce around the studio.

She puts two slices of apple pie on a plate and pours them coffee. Dean sees the shining gold band of her wedding ring, thinks about how sometimes she fiddles with it, as if it doesn't belong on her skin. As if it itches. He wonders if sometimes she takes it off.

“Is your husband back home?”

"Ow!" Coffee spills over the cup she was filling and burns her hand. Dean gets up to help, but she waves him away. It's nothing, she says with a slightly off voice and lets cold water run over her fingers, under the tap on her left.

“He died. A week ago.”

Dean feels his blood freeze, a sudden pang of emptiness for someone he has never known. “God, Pam. I'm so sorry.”

"I'm not crying."

A pause.

“What?”

“I'm not crying, that’s the worst.” She turns to him and her face is slightly pinched, but clear of tears. “I mean, sure. When they called me about it I was destroyed, shocked.” She shrugs. “Lonely.”

She wipes away the coffee stains on the counter and then joins him at the table.

When she speaks again, she is looking at her cup. She wraps her hands around it. “I guess, later I realized I wasn't really grieving, I’ve been feeling lonely long before that.”

She lowers her gaze again and bites her lips. Dean gets up and sits down quietly on the seat next to hers to sling an arm around her shoulders. She looks at him and smiles with strained lips, it doesn’t reach her eyes, which are a vibrant forest green. Dean thinks he had never noticed it and wonders why.

“How did it happen?”

She fiddles with her cup. “His body just started shutting down after his latest travel in Africa. Even the doctors are completely baffled, they think it may be something he contracted there."

"Africa?"

"Oh, yeah. Was a bit of traveler, wasn't he?"

“Yeah.” He nods though he can tell she isn't there with him anymore. Her eyes are watching something so far away, Dean fears she might disappear right in front of his eyes. He lets her go.

“Promise me something, Dean.”

She takes his hand and he looks at her.

“Promise me, when you'll find your love – don't look at me like that, you _will_ find it. Trust me.” She looks at him, chiding and when he scoffs, she slaps his arm. “You’re handsome, Dean, and good. You're a catch.” She winks at him and he chuckles. “Promise me, that if it's love, the real deal, you'll never let them go. You have to _live_ it. Such a crazy little thing, all ups and downs, like a ride,” her smile is large as her eyes and she chuckles when she says: “You just go along with it. Ready or not.”

Dean promises and kisses her temple.

 

-

 

“I still can’t believe you made a song for Pam.”

“You said it was good.”

Gabriel gestures at the music sheets. “Yes! But it’s about love, man. That’s the point.”

“What can I say? Her charms have finally got to me, too.” He winks at her figure in the workstation. Her shoulders shake with laughter, then she blows him a kiss from behind the glass.

Castiel rolls his eyes as he sits down next to her and presses a button. “Guys, can we start? We are behind schedule.”

Gabe gets in front of the mic and huffs. “And whose fault is that?”

“What. Don’t start this again. You know, this album must be perfect and yesterday you agreed with-”

“Dean, Gabe. Can we start, please?” Chuck whines and bumps his head against the mic in front of him.

Dean dons his new headphones and adjust his position. He grumbles under his breath and Gabe punches lightly his shoulder. “Shut up and sing.”

Dean smirks, then raises his hand. Gabe’s guitar and Chuck’s bass fill his ears and the music flows. He nods in time with the music and just as Cas’s drums start he sings:

“ _This thing called love, I just can't handle it. This thing called love, I must get round to it. I ain't ready. Crazy little thing called love._ ”

He looks at Pamela and smirks when she mouths ‘I love it’ at him. Then she nods with her head towards Castiel and winks.

Dean chokes on air and gets so worked up, he has to call everything off and start again.

Gabe shouts: “Why! What the hell was wrong this time?”

 

Later, he doesn’t want to go home yet. He wants to delay another sleepless night for as long as he can. He asks the others if they want to take a bite with him, they agree it’s been a while since the last time all four of them have gone out together and accept.

“Is the invitation extended to me too, or is it too much to assume so?”

No one answers. The silence it’s awkward. Dean stifles the urge to share glance with the others, instead he shrugs. “Sure.”

He ignores Gabriel’s hiss, “What!” and starts to walk towards their favorite place for a quick bite and some good booze.

It’s awkward at first, they don’t really know how to interact with Michael amongst them. But after some stumbles he and Cas manage to engage the others in a conversation. When the beer starts to run, it becomes _painful_.

Gabriel picks up one cold fry from his plate and dips it in ketchup. He points it at Michael. “So, Mike. May I call you Mike?”

“No.”

“Ow, shoot. So, Mike, you have friends, right?”

“Gabe.” Castiel sighs, tiredly.

“It’s a legitimate question, Cas. All I see him doing is looming behind us. I’m just concerned for his private life.”

“Yes, I do have friends, for your information. But I’m pretty sure my private life it’s none of your business, _Gabe_ , I’m literally paid to _loom behind you_.”

“Ha, haha. See? He does have a funny bone. Who would have said it.” He shakes his head in disbelief. Dean chugs down his pint in few gulps.

Michael gets up and takes his mug from his hand. “Let me take it for you, Dean. I’ll order another.”

“I don’t know if-”

He waves him off, “Nonsense. It’s on me.” and walks toward the bar.

“-I want another.” He finishes in vain.

They all watch his back disappear in the crowd.

Gabe narrows his eyes. “He is shady.”

Chuck doesn’t lift his eyes from his cocktail and fiddles with the straws. “Well, if you continue to bully him, he certainly won’t become friendlier anytime soon.”

“I wasn’t bullying him.”

They all look at him, deadpan. He huffs. “You, guys, are so boring.”

“Well,” Castiel starts. “He does seem a bit too obsessed with Dean, in my opinion.”

Dean tenses up suddenly, thinking of his last private conversation with Michael. Ever since, he has tried to never end up alone in the same room with him and by the furtive glances he has received, Dean knows he has noticed it. He had shoved the issue so deep in his mind, he had nearly forgotten about it.

He looks up at Cas who is staring down at his hands curled around his glass of beer. Moisture gathers around his fingers.

“It’s true, I’ve noticed it too.” Chuck nods, then looks at him. “He is not bothering you, is he?”

Dean’s glass slips from his clenched hands and spins a bit on the wooden table. He scrambles to take it back, but when he looks back up at his friends they’re all watching him with a worried frown. “What. No, he is not.”

Cas visibly pales. “Dean, what did he do?”

“He,” Dean chuckles, it comes out hysterical. “He didn’t do anything. Guys, really, stop giving me looks.”

“Dean, we’re not joking. He has advantage over us. What if he pulls off something weird? We need to stick together in these things, man.” Chuck says patiently.

Gabriel nods at him. “Darn, straight.”

Cas snakes a hand towards him on the table, but aborts the gesture halfway. Dean looks as it rests there awkwardly, straining to reach him and refusing to go back. When Cas speaks, he looks up to him. “What did he do?”

He feels compelled to spill everything out and he’s about to, but when he opens his mouth a beer mug descends right in front of him and a hand settles on his shoulder. It feels larger and heavier than it should.

Michal sits down beside him. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He says, looking straight at him and Dean _knows_. Dean knows that Michael knows, has heard, if not everything, at least the last part and he’s now telling him with his eyes that _no, you won’t tell your friends_. He looks down at the glass in front of him and watches the tiny bubbles reach the surface of his drink. He feels sick.

Gabe sneers at him. “As if. I don’t believe for a second that you weren’t eavesdropping.”

Cas looks about ready to leap from his seat and help Gabe strangle the man. “Michael,”

“Guys!” Everyone stares at him. He looks right at Cas and pleads. “Drop it, please.”

He looks slightly hurt, his hand retracts until it’s hidden under the table. It pulls at his chest like a rope and his lungs shrivel on themselves. He wants to shout _don’t leave me. don’t stop. don’t._ Instead he gulps his beer down, eyes closed tight.

Michael’s hand doesn’t move away from his shoulder.

 

The night doesn’t get much better after that. After some more minutes of awkward silence, they give up and decide to go home. Their farewells are stilted and Dean can’t help but wish he were at home already. Suddenly even staring at the ceiling feels more pleasant than this.

As soon as he starts to away, he realizes with a shiver that he has left his jacket in the pub. He runs back inside and a waiter helps him search for it. When they finally find it he thanks him profusely. He gets out with a smile, hands warming inside his pockets.

Michael is leaning on a lamppost, right under its yellow cone of light. His steps falter and he is about to change direction, but the other’s gaze finds him and leans up straight. Dean keeps walking.

The other reaches him and falls into step with him. “Can I walk you home?”

“You already are.”

Their steps are quiet in the street.

“I’m sorry for tonight.”

Dean narrows his eyes and slightly slows down. “What do you mean?”

 “I wanted to have a good time with you and the band for once.” Michael lifts his dark eyes and smiles softly. “We only ever interact through work. Instead it turned out a complete failure. Didn’t it?”

Dean is about to deny it, but all in all: “Yeah, it was shit.”

Michael laughs throatily and Dean watches his tendons shift under his jaw. He feels out of his depth.

They walk towards Dean’s home in peaceful silence, only broken from time to time with careful conversation. Michael insists on walking him to his door and as tired as Dean feels he doesn’t have the strength to protest.

So when, on his patio, he turns around to say good night, he doesn’t expect the pair of hands suddenly gripping his face hard and keeping it still. Michael’s lips smash upon his, but he doesn’t understand at first. It’s wet and hot, the hands on his face are on the verge of painful and when one of them moves to tangle in his hair he snaps out of it.

Michael is kissing him, right under the light of his porch, hard and open mouthed. His saliva smears over his lips, the sides of his mouth, his chin. In a bout of nausea, he scrunches up his eyes and pushes the other away, hard.

“What the fuck!”

Michael stumbles back, panting. His eyes wild. Dean feels scared for the first time.

He leans towards him again, the intent clear, and Dean stumbles back until his back hits the door. Michael braces his elbows around his head and nudges him with his hard crotch. “Don’t be like this, Dean. I know you want it, don’t deny us some good fun just because you feel prudish.”

Dean feels disgusted when the other chuckles and noses his ear, he pushes him back hard and this time punches him in the stomach. Michael folds on himself winded, he looks about to kneel over and Dean feels slightly more in control. He looks down on the other and tries to say something, anything. But he fears if he opens his mouth he will vomit.

Michael wheezes: “Dean! You, bitch! You are nothing. Where do you think you’ll go without my pity?”

He nervously gives a look around the empty street.

“Dean!”

He gets inside and slams the door in Michael’s face. When, after a minute, he doesn’t hear any more sounds he slumps against the door and lets himself fall down on the floor. He feels completely spent, just like a cigarette, burned to the bone. With nothing else to give.

He bumps back his head.

Nausea roars back again, his stomach turns on itself and he wipes angrily at his mouth with his sleeve. It doesn’t feel like enough. _It’s disgusting_ , he repeats to himself, his mouth feels sticky. He goes to the bathroom to wash his lips and brush his teeth. As he applies the toothpaste to his brush, he feels lethargic. His limbs are heavier than lead.

The foam fills his mouth too much, it’s suffocating. It dribbles down the sides of his lips and he spits it in the sink, gagging. He turns around and throws up once in the toilet. Twice.

He rests his forehead on the cold seat and closes his eyes. He thinks of Castiel, how he looks when is worried, angry, tired, when he won’t meet his eyes.

He wakes up two hours later, slumped against his bath tub with no recollection of how or when he moved. He washes his face, gets in comfortable clothes and then into bed.

 

He doesn’t sleep.

 

-

 

“ _Here we stand or here we fall, history won't care at all. Make the bed, light the light. Lady Mercy won't be home tonight.”_

He moves the mic wire behind him as Gabe and Chuck sing: “ _You don't waste no time at all._ ”

“ _Don't hear the bell but you answer the call._ ” He drags the last vowel a bit, his head slightly thrown back.

“ _It comes to you as to us all._ ”

“ _Yeah, we're just waiting for the hammer to fall_.” He fist pumps and shouts: “ _Yeah!_ ”

Gabriel nods along the music as he plays his arrangement and Dean paces the studio swinging the wire he has in hand, completely immersed into the music.

The door opens, but they don’t stop. He doesn’t glance at it, he already knows who it is. His breath feels short.

“ _Oh, every night, and every day a little piece of you is falling away. But lift your face the Western way, build your muscles as your body decays, yeah!”_

Michael leans against the wall, arms crossed, and watches him. Dean tries to focus on his friends. “ _Tow the line and play their game_ ”

“ _Yeah, let the anesthetic cover it all_.” Michael lifts his chin challenging, it’s like his stare goes right through him. It pierces his guts. Makes him bleed.

“ _‘Til one day they call your name._ ”

“ _You know it's time for the hammer to fall!_ ” He strains the first words in a high rasp and ends up coughing through the rest. His right hand drops down and he turns away. He rubs his tired eyes.

The band lets the music drift and Dean puts the mic back on his metallic stick. “It was awful, guys. Sorry, I ruined it.”

“It wasn’t so bad.” Chuck tries with a sight grimace.

Gabriel nods. “Yeah, I just feared for my life when the windows trembled.”

“Very funny.” Then in a lower voice. “Fucker.”

“I heard that!”

Dean uncaps his bottle of water. “Huh, good for you.”

He drinks and as the water soothes his throat, wonders how much will it take for Michael to lose his patience with them. Dean, for one, is good with ignoring him forever.

“Well, good evening to you too, guys.” Not long, it turns out.

“Right back at you, Dean.” Gabe finally looks at their manager. “Not so good anymore, now that I saw your face.”

Michael rolls his eyes, gets up and shrugs his usual black leather jacket well into place. “Bullshit aside,” They smile venomously at each other. “I wanted to see if you’re done with the rehearsals. We have a deadline in two weeks to respect.”

Dean is watching Michael so carefully that he nearly misses when Gabriel snaps: “We are done when we say we are. The songs are all written and almost all recorded, there’s no need for you here.”

Michael meets Dean’s eyes briefly, but turns immediately back to Gabriel and chuckles. “Whatever have I done to deserve such hatred from you, little man?”

“That!” Gabriel takes two steps to stand right in front of him and points a finger under his nose. “That’s why I can’t stand you! _Little man_ , how dare you. Who do you think you are? You, slimy bitch-”

“Whoa, Gabe.” Dean tries to amend, he puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just, calm down-”

“And you, Dean.” He narrows his eyes at him and straightens. “Don’t think I don’t know shit just because I pretend not to. I have eyes.” He goes over to put his guitar in its case and slings it over his shoulders.

“Gabe-”

“Just remember who your friends are, Dean. And remember that we are here for you, no matter what.” He throws him one last stern glance, before waving at everyone with one hand, the other firmly on the door handle. “Bye, guys. See you tomorrow.”

The door slams and the sound echoes in the silent studio.

Dean does his best to control his anger through his breathing, but it quickly fills the intermittent emptiness he has been feeling lately. He wants to break something and he wants it to hurt. Something that makes him ache. Inside. Outside.

Anything.

He’s so deep inside himself, he doesn’t see Michael getting closer until his hand hovers on his arm.

“Don’t touch me.” He looks him right in the eyes. “Go away.”

Michael freezes midair. He looks like he wants to say something, instead his eyes scan his friends behind him. His gaze settles back on him and he leans forward, nearly in Dean’s face. His stomach churns as he thinks he is about to kiss him _again, here, fuck_ – he stops.

A whisper – “We’re not done.” Michael backs up, staring warningly at him, and gets out.

Dean is rooted on the spot.

“Dean.” He turns. Castiel is looking carefully at him. “Let’s go home. We were done here, anyway.”

“Yeah and I can close up. I have the keys.”

“You sure, Chuck?” Cas checks and adjusts his backpack.

“No problem.”

“Thank you.” He takes Dean arm and swivels him towards the exit. He lets his feet drag a bit, but Cas doesn’t say anything. His grip on his arm is gentle and Dean tries to focus on that warmth, hoping to find a balance.

They get in his car. Cas lives close by, that’s why he doesn’t have his own. He does have a license, though always says he hates driving anyway. So, Dean is surprised when Cas gets in by the driver seat. He arches his brows.

“What. I can drive, sometimes.” He says gruffly.

Dean gets in the car by the passenger side, feeling strangely misplaced. “So, we’re going to mine?”

“Did you have something else in mind?”

He doesn’t answer.

On the way, it starts to rain. The windshield wipers whine regularly and Dean watches them go back and forth. He observes the raindrops melting away the reflections of the lights. They move on the glass like liquid glow, then they get wiped away again. Back and forth.

“Cas?” He calls him when they stop to a red light. The rain’s shadow moves across his face like fat rolling tears, his jaw is hidden by the collar of his jacket. His right hand is gripping the shift hard. His knuckles are nearly white.

He wets his lips. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“About what.”

“About Michael.” Green. He starts the car a beat later. “Whatever he’s done. I understand, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. Castiel’s breath is starting to quicken and his eyes fidget across the road. He adjusts his grip on the wheel and blinks rapidly. “It just makes me so angry. To be sure that he’s done something. _To you_. But.”

He rubs the underside of his nose, inhaling deeply. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

They stop in front of his house. He turns off the car.

Dean takes a deep breath, wipes his palms on his jeans.

“He’s touched me, said some strange things. Then he kissed me.” Castiel’s eyes widens, he stares straight ahead. Jaw visibly shifting, nostrils flaring. “And I punched him in the guts. I thought he was going to puke all over the porch.” He chuckles, then he gently nudges Cas’s chin to make him look at him.

“You know pretty darn well that I can defend myself, Cas. So, will you stop it?”

Castiel’s eyes are dark, the shadows across his face haunting. He softly wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist and tightens them slightly. It makes something clench in Dean’s chest, a distant nervousness that makes the air feel thin.

He whispers: “I can’t stop.”

His hand moves towards his shoulder, bunches up his fabric as it goes.

“He’s touched you.”

“Cas.”

“Would you punch me in the gut?” He looks down briefly and shifts closer – puts his hand on his chest, fingers spread wide. Dean can’t stop watching his lips, he feels his hot breath across his upper lip.

“No.”

Their lips brush and the heat that flashes in his head makes Dean close his eyes tight. He feels his heartbeat clearly, but this time it’s a good feeling. It raises in his throat.

Cas brushes his lips once more, mouth half open, and Dean breathes him in. It’s nearly painful. He tries to turn his head away, kisses Cas’s cheek in the process. His stubble burns his skin and thinks maybe he wants that feeling on his tongue too. Cas drops his face into his neck and breathes against his skin, Dean rests his head on his hair to keep him there. He grips the fabric of the other’s jacket and presses him harder against himself. Cas noses the line of his throat, leaves wet kisses in a trail that ends just under his ear.

He is overwhelmed by an unfamiliar wave of lust. He feels the need to get out of the car, walk it off, feel some deep cold in his bones and shake off that crushing heat. It makes his head feel as if it’s not his own. Castiel moves – lifts his head up. A worried frown is sweeping away the haziness in his eyes and _no, he is misunderstanding this_ – Dean moves without realizing it.

The only audible sounds are their heavy breaths and the loud battering of the rain on the car. The windows have fogged up and little light streams through it. A thunder rumbles in the distance and flashes white on their faces. Dean lifts his free hand and cups Castiel’s cheek, who unconsciously sags into it – tension leaving his body in the next breath. Dean’s face hovers in front of the other’s, thinks of nosing his cheekbones but nudges one and stays there. Skims their noses together. He opens his mouth to breathe, but when Cas mirrors him he moves and they meet halfway. It’s wet, tongues dragging against each other sloppily, louder than anything else around them. Dean slacks his jaw, to get more of Cas’s lips, tongue – everything. He palms his arms, firm from playing an instrument so tiring, and a dangerous heat shoots down his spine. Swells in his groin and makes him shift on his seat. He needs more, closer.

Dean slides his right hand inside Castiel’s jacket, meets the fuzzy wool of his sweater and searches beneath. He skims his cold fingertips over his shirt and feels through it the soft skin of his abdomen. Cas sighs wobbly in his mouth, tongues disconnecting, and drags his lips over Dean’s, catching a bit onto them. He moves his hand over Dean’s beneath his sweater and grasps it.

“I don’t think,” his voice is hoarse. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if you want – I mean, not that I’m not up for _that_ but,” He looks wrecked, hair disheveled and red lips. He looks down once, to their joined hands and Dean does too. Like that, he notices the bulge he is accidentally rubbing with his wrist.

“Oh!” He retracts abruptly and feels stupid. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t worry! It’s,”

“Yeah, yeah.” Then he adds: “It’s not like I’m not hard too.”

Castiel looks down and watches his crotch. Dean feels hot with embarrassment, but when he looks at Castiel, all ruffled up, eyes wide and vivid, something burst in his chest. A laugh escapes his mouth. “This is so awkward.”

Castiel looks back up at him startled, and his mouth curves upward too. He chuckles quietly, under his breath, then rests against his seat and outright laughs. Dean watches him curl his arms against his stomach as if it’s too much. He feels high.

“Do you want to come inside?” Then he adds: “Just to sleep! It’s just the weather is dreadful and-”

“Oh my God, Dean. Stop.” He takes a deep breath and laughs one last time. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Dean smiles and moves closer to Cas once more. They look at each other with quiet smile and share another kiss, shorter this time, tender. “I didn’t think you’d be like this.”

Dean pauses. “Like what?”

“Like,” Castiel squints at him. “Bashful.”

“Bashful?”

“Yes, and awkward.”

He scoffs. “I’m not.”

“I like it.” Castiel brushes his thumb on Dean’s lips and he kisses it. Then he replaces it with his mouth to lightly suck at them and Dean thinks if he were to stay like this forever, it would be okay.

“I like you too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: non-consensual kissing and dean has some self-harm thoughts, but it's just mentioned
> 
> Songs in this chapter:  
> -Everytime we say goodbye by Cole Porter  
> -Crazy little thing called love by Queen  
> -Hammer to fall by Queen


End file.
